Pokéshock 1889: EngineerSlave, Maid, Survivor, Soldier, and Rapture
by Pokelolo99
Summary: "Builder and Destroyer. Will or Willing? Priest or Joseph. To Service or To Kill? Paradise of Freedom and Prosperity or Spoon Feed? In 1889 an event caused by Nikola Tesla invention. Unknown creatures appeared like miracles where technology/philosophy/religion advanced to the time of war, destruction and peace. Viewed by five people who lived through it, like me." 1930, Andrew Ryan


**Crossover between world of Pokémon and Bioshock along side with our history. This is not the introduction of the chapter, but near the middle. The rest will be a surprise on the release of Chapter 1 after the holiday.**

 **Events in history will be alter, delayed or speed up based on this story.**

 **The Later Progressive is only this chapter, because I haven't polish out the rest of the chapter. Since this is just a preview I need to do more research about Bioshock, prewar and WW1 includes the other chapters.**

 **[Location]**

 **"Speech"**

 ** _"Thought"_**

 **(POV)**

* * *

Pokéshock 1889: Engineer/Slave, Maid, Survivor, Soldier, and Rapture.

Chapter One: 3909 04 0 7193.

[.- - .-.. .- -. - .. -.-. / - -.-. . .- -. -..- / .- ...- / - ..-. / .- .-. .-. .. .-.. -..- / .- -.. -.. ...-Atlantic Ocean, Winter of December 14th 1885]

(John Limmberman)

I huddled under the covers in my bunk bed trying to get some sleep, but the sound of the ship is not made any easier.

"ZZZZzzzffftf."

The loud snoring coming from Jack Alastair is no worse. Jack Alastair is a thirty-five year old drunken-red-haired Irish man from some funny place called Liffey. I need to stop calling him Alastair, because this lucky man is going to be married a twenty-five year old beautiful blonde hair dame woman named...to hard to pronounce in Russian, but I know her last name was Ryan.

I had met her once eight months ago when Jack introduce me to her in city called Minsk on Belarus. Why a beautiful dame woman like her is marring a guy like Jack, well you see he is char...forget it! He knock her up, and since Jack is Christian he believed it is best for their future child, and she agreed too.

Surprise!?

"ZZZZZffffblurg!", he belches in his sleep and turns in his hammock.

Surprised?

Jack is also the worst bunk buddy, but he is also my mentor who taught me everything for the past five years about Engineering and coil wrapping for advance steam technology.

Crash!

One of his empty whiskey bottle slip out of his right hand and smashed into the floor, making this loud noise and somehow Jack is still asleep.

"Jack! Wake up! C'mon man at least pick your damn whiskey!"

"Later."

"Fuck I knew your fuckin awake!"

"Ya, whaat make you tank.", he said in a distinctive Irish accent and roll back to sleep with a bottle of whiskey beside him.

A heavy sleep my ass and alcoholic that part is true, he drinks too much whiskey or any type of alcohol he can get his hand on, and by the look of his left hand still gripping onto the empty whiskey bottle.

He is not a perfect example of a mentor, but it's not like I lot of choice in my life.

Try to do the same except the alcohol I watched the oil lamp next to me slowly swaying with the movement of the ship and listened to the creaking and groaning of Carrie's slightly annoying propellers or what's in our station rattle in junk, mostly empty whiskey bottle.

I decided to take this advantage and got up from my bunk bed and walk to my locker next to Jacks. Each crew owns their own locker including station for RNR based where they are assigned.

I open my locker and see my equipment is stored properly and organize. The smell became obvious from Jack's locker where he has this habit of tossing in like day old socks, and he literally tosses his socks too. I know, because I seen him do it time and time.

I took out my Rivet Gun Mark 2 or RG2, a small handheld similar design to a Colt SAA, but with a cylinder bulker magazine. The RG2 is much loftier and safer than the Mark 1, because of the nozzle. The Mark 2 is water cooled nozzle than the Mark 1 air cooled vents that can burn a man's hand when overheating.

I took apart my RG2's nozzle and notices inside are rust. I start by carefully cleaning the rusty nuzzle with a wire brush until it's spotless. One I'm done and putting it back the nozzle, I decide to make sure that the RG2's magazine is not damaged from being delivered at the Docking area back at Queenstown.

I only have two categories of the rivets magazine in my locker that comes with it, the heated rivet magazine for quick temporary repairs, and then the normal bolt rivets for permanent regular repairs. There are others like magnetic, vertical, and trio rivets, but still in their cargo in the Docking.

A very important route for me, Jack and every engineer on-board Carrie have to do almost every day, because the RG2 is a very vital tool engineers need to be in perfect state of necessary or urgent repair.

"Zzzzzzzblarg.", Jack murmured in his sleep.

Jack sometimes teases me about how the RG2 can be used as a brutal rifle instead a repair tool and it's more accurate than the Automatic Rifle Blizzard Mark 4 in our locker, ARB4. The ARB4 is a long, heavy rifle and poorly accurate when fired, but deadly when used as it should be. I don't like it, but it's a mandatory weapon to own.

Next is the Plasma Torch Mark 1, PT1 is a prototype blow torch, smaller and more efficient than the Joe Torch Mark 1, PT1. I heard rumors on board about whether it is a good idea to should replace the JT1. The rumor goes that one of men on-board Lincoln got a second degree burns on his left hand.

This lead the PT1 can only be available for me and Jack since hey, because why not uses for a black man and drunk Irish than their white men on board.

Just kidding, actually we are only candidate to ask to test the PT1 since it was made from China, and some people think that the Chinamen aren't good at sight which makes them unreliable. I don't know why people are speculating; the PT1 is actually comes in hand, and Jack agreed it's better than the JT1. Jack reason, he likes to use the PT1 for a quick grilled cheese sandwich or light up his nasty ass cigars.

Again, worse bunk buddy, but great mentor.

Fart!

He farted.

Sigh and left my station for some fresh non-Irish air.

[Later Progressive]

"Mister…."

"Mister…..wake up."

"Mister!"

"MISTER!"

"Rrrr.", I groan, because of a high pitch voice and immediately landed my face on the floor and the air was freezing cold.

"Mister you can't sleep here, you can get a cold. Here's a blanket."

I got up and turn to look at a white boy with brown curly hair and how he is dress compare to the poor, for he must be from First Class Passengers. The little boy then gave me a blanket to wrap myself from the cold night.

"I must have fallen asleep. Man, what a long trip departing from Queenstown."

I turn to the boy, he smiles for me to thank him. "Thanks, go away.", I said sternly at the boy.

"What a rude mister!", he said, and left in a scurry.

The reason why I yell at him rather than thanking him for the warm blanket, because is he a little rich white boy, and if he was seen with me, those white mother fuckers. I would be beaten and treated as a criminal and even if I were the engineer of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland RMS Titanic and or Carrie the..

"Ow!", I yelled, because something hit my knee.

"Rude mister!"

"Scram kid!"

"My name is Gunter rude mister!"

"Why are you here, you should be with your family!", I asked sternly.

"I want an apology!", he persisted while stomping his feet, and making noise that could attract unwanted attention.

I gave Gunter a pretend apology and he left in a scurry without attracting attention.

I review my procedures enough I could say I'm finished my inspection on the Boat Deck hull and there was no sign of any hull breach. I dial the radio on the Marconi radio system, which personally took about minutes; this system is inferior to Edison's radio system on the Carrie which takes seconds.

I dial in for Edward John Smith the captain of the RMS Titanic.

Waiting endlessly Edward finally arrived and he is with his personal maid Anthro Beast Purrloin. She grew a lot from the treatment and she is almost the same height of a grown woman, wearing her cute the official RMS Titanic maid outfit custom on-board. I remember her name was Angela and I see her holding two cups of hot tea, smiling and seem that cold air doesn't bother her at all, however Edward is freezing from the cold air.

"A good time to drink.", he says in his British accent in a shivering tone.

"Here you go sir.", Angela said very politely and she hands me the warm tea cup.

I took the tea cup and replied, "Thanks for tea Angela." The warmth felt so good on my cold hands.

Angela smiles and she offer her master his tea cup and Edward with his free hand, he adjusted the collar of his captain coat against the biting cold.

"Good girl.", he says very British and he gave Angela a affectionate pet, for which she purrs like a regular house cat.

Then he goes all baby talk to Angela, because she likes to be treated that way of a regular house cat.

British accent can be annoying sometimes, but not nearly as the French.

 _"I hate the French."_

Trying to break it up I said, "Jolly good folk."

They both stop and laughs at me, because it came out Australian-Alabama accent.

Edward smiled in an appreciation for my jokes, and he ass Angela to pull out a his gold plated Flinter to smoke his pipe.

I offered to light up by this new tonic that could make your fingers light up a fire like a Flinter by snapping my fingers. Edward was impress, but Angela got his worried expression in her face. I knows that smoking was forbidden here, because the smoke from the tobacco can adversely affect the electronics, including my equipment, but he had a rough night.

I said nothing and he smokes like a Santa on Christmas day night.

After tea, Edward thanks me for coming down to check for any damages and dismissed me for the rest of the night. Before leaving, he asked me a concern question. He asked about the RMS Titanic safety and how she took a small hit from an iceberg two hours ago, and whether we should be concerned about the sinking.

A strange question who in charge of the unsinkable ship. Edward is known for being the greatest captain in all Britain asking an engineer. His question gave me uneasy feeling that it might happen.

I laugh and told him not to worry and they should be alright. I gave back his tea cup and left laughing, but inside I'm not alright.

There wasn't, and shouldn't be since it's reinforced with high quality material the White Star Line Vessel afford for their most luxurious boat they had ever built, for the rich. Anyone here won't stop jabbering about how RMS Titanic is the greatest, flawless-unsinkable, and biggest ship in the world.

Flawless and unsinkable.

I am worried about one flaw.

One is that why the White Star Line Vessel installed a shitty radio system? I swear one of these days; this unsinkable ship will meet its demise from another iceberg or worse, pirates.

I hope I haven't jinxed it.

[Later Progressive]

I lean against the metal bars that separates us from falling into what seem to be forever to fall and die from either the impact of the ocean, freeze or eaten alive.

I check my work book from my leather utility pouch, and check of the list and pretty much done for today. Bored, I pulled out Punnet, a newly hot of the market supposedly a wireless radio that can emit message in audio, and people are considering the name, portable phones. It is a small brown wooden box with a crosswire in the middle for audio output, and with the two small nods that you could fix the signals in the dial of any near broadcasting station. Good for entertainment, and only news.

I heard some crazy fellow talking about capture moving images in a glass screen.

What a crazy idea.

I fixed the nods for any signal until I got something; it's a weak broadcast from London.

"On the train, coming into London…zzzzzzzzzzzzz…the…, she'd nothing else than blackened skeleton of a crashed airship in a field….zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…..Germans increases their…."

[Later Progressive]

Gunter is on his fours trying his best not to look down or grasp that we are thousands of feet in the air and Carrie's loud rotating propeller is not making any better.

"I hate flying. I always have to because of mommy and daddy!", he said in a complain.

Gunter rants for about two minutes until I gave him some ration chocolate to shut him up.

"Hey mister!", he said loudly, and surprise he manage to be louder than the Carrie's propeller.

"Yes."

"Are you a slave?"

I continue to repair turret number 5, but that damn kid is getting annoying as he continues to bother me about, me.

 _"Fine."_

I gave Gunter an answer.

"What the hell kind of answer is that?" , he said and now very irritated.

"Y-you don't know, what are you talking about kid.", I said and starting to lose my temper, but I remember he just a kid.

"Sure I do. My daddy said that you niggers are slaves, and you're the same at home.", said Gunter as if he were answering to a teacher.

I shook my head violently, and try to keep my cool, "It's not the same, kid."

 _"He is just a kid, let it go."_

"Aren't you a nigger or a coon, Mister?"

[Later Progressive]

Our ship manages to dodge the Blitzchlag's Mark 2 relatively small bombs; however she did take a great deal of bombing on the starboard. Never the less, as I fly to see the damage, I also see the vapor trails of aircraft weaving overhead.

Suddenly, I hear the chattering of their machine guns becoming really close to me, as they locked in battle with our Gliders and they spotted me.

The Germans's Blitzchlag Mark 2 released hell of bullets at my direction, but some of our Gliders manage to get their attention away from me and instead start chasing them.

I immediate detach myself and dive to hover to see where any part needs repair. I was spotted, but barely evade by nearby hatch and safely inside as I hear the bullets hitting the outside hatch.

KKKKKKK! The bullets bounce off from the outside hatch. I could feel if the bullets is about to reach me.

Then it stops.

[Later Progressive]

I saw number of people and Beast are horribly disfigured from burns, because of the leaking steam or the explosion from the Germans. I recognize out of the howling in pain crowd, one very tired Beast Anthro Sceptile Doctor name Scaly Connor.

"Good god! Nurse! Sorry, but I am need else where.", he said in a pant.

He lead to an seemily available bed where there was dry blood everywhere and he left in a hurry. Moments later a Beast Anthro Jellicent Nurse spotted me immediately; I remember her name was Emily Frown.

Emily Frown is a nurse in training from the Red Cross, and god I can't imagine the horror she must've seen or perform in this nightmarish hell, too young for an eighteen year old to do this.

Emily said there is a shortage of Morphine and my treatment will be painful.

I told her, it was alright and told her to stop saying she was sorry.

Emily uses her tentacles to move me carefully and did the right thing to not remove the shrapnel after checking for an exist wound, which she told me there aren't. Next she knows starts to clean and disinfected around the shrapnel, it burns, but it's worse what comes next. Emily slowly picks up the forceps and antiseptic to remove all small debris, and there I bit my lips as she pulls the main shrapnel.

* * *

 **Please excuse the language, I want to be real to the time period as possible, and I might use a much less offending word.**


End file.
